The Wanderer's Necklace eBook

The days and the nights went by, but which was day
and which was night I knew not, save for the visits
of the jailers with my meals—­I who was
blind, I who should never see the light again.
At first I suffered much, but by degrees the pain
died away. Also a physician came to tend my hurts,
a skilful man. Soon I discovered, however, that
he had another object. He pitied my state, so
much, indeed, he said, that he offered to supply me
with a drug that, if I were willing to take it, would
make an end of me painlessly. Now I understood
at once that Irene desired my death, and, fearing
to cause it, set the means of self-murder within my
reach.

I thanked the man and begged him to give me the drug,
which he did, whereon I hid it away in my garments.
When it was seen that I still lived although I had
asked for the medicine, I think that Irene believed
this was because it had failed to work, or that such
a means of death did not please me. So she found
another. One evening when a jailer brought my
supper he pressed something heavy into my hand, which
I felt to be a sword.

“What weapon is this?” I asked, “and
why do you give it to me?”

“It is your own sword,” answered the man,
“which I was commanded to return to you.
I know no more.”

Then he went away, leaving the sword with me.

I drew the familiar blade from its sheath, the red
blade that the Wanderer had worn, and touching its
keen edge with my fingers, wept from my blinded eyes
to think that never again could I hold it aloft in
war or see the light flash from it as I smote.
Yes, I wept in my weakness, till I remembered that
I had no longer any wish to be the death of men.
So I sheathed the good sword and hid it beneath my
mattress lest some jailer should steal it, which,
as I could not see him, he might do easily. Also
I desired to put away temptation.

I think that this hour after the bringing of the sword,
which stirred up so many memories, was the most fearful
of all my hours, so fearful that, had it been prolonged,
death would have come to me of its own accord.
I had sunk to misery’s lowest deep, who did not
know that even then its tide was turning, who could
not dream of all the blessed years that lay before
me, the years of love and of such peaceful joy as even
the blind may win.

That night Martina came—­Martina, who was
Hope’s harbinger. I heard the door of my
prison open and close softly, and sat still, wondering
whether the murderers had entered at last, wondering,
too, whether I should snatch the sword and strike
blindly till I fell. Next I heard another sound,
that of a woman weeping; yes, and felt my hand lifted
and pressed to a woman’s lips, which kissed it
again and yet again. A thought struck me, and
I began to draw it back. A soft voice spoke between
its sobs.

“Have no fear, Olaf. I am Martina.
Oh, now I understand why yonder tigress sent me on
that distant mission.”